All The Books Are Fake
by Heroic Princess
Summary: Daisy wasn't the only one who loved Jay Gatsby...


Sylvia went to every single party. She always went alone, even though at the time, a woman alone at a party was unimaginable. However, none of Sylvia's friends enjoyed parties much and she had broken up her last relationship over spilled wine on an antique typewriter. So, since Sylvia had no one to go with, she went to the party alone. Besides, West Egg wasn't too far from where she lived, so she simply took a taxi to the large house and told the driver to come back at one o'clock in the morning. Sometimes she stayed later than midnight, and then she would have to search drunkenly for a telephone so that she could call the taxi company to request another cab to replace the one whose impatient driver had left her at the dwindling party.

The particular night in question went something just like that. Sylvia had arrived at the party as the sun was setting over the bay and instructed the driver to return at one o'clock. Then, she straightened her silver shift and let herself be carried up the vast marble steps into the great house by the enthusiastic crowd. Inside the house, voices echoed against the stately walls and high ceilings, bouncing carelessly off each piece drop of crystal on the enormous chandeliers. Sylvia went to the bar immediately for a drink, a gin rickey, to set her nerves at bay. It was not as if she had never been to a party before, although she found herself getting nervous every time she came. She supposed that she was afraid that someone would try to speak to her. Sylvia loved watching people-which was why she came to the parties-but she hated actual interaction. She preferred to stick to her characters. They were so much kinder.

However, no one bothered to make any sort of conversation with the lone woman, sparkling understatedly amid the rambunctious sequins and jewels. She retreated to a corner to look out at the massive crowd and jot down notes and her old, worn, leather notebook about this man's hair and that woman's shrieking voice. Bits and pieces of odd conversations were made permanent in neat cursive, clearly etched onto the creamy pages.

Sylvia was so engrossed in her observations, casting her thoughtful eyes over the sparkling heads, that she did not notice the man until he was right beside her.

"Good evening," he said when she turned to look at him. The man did not look at her as he spoke, his gaze following the same path as her's had only moments before, scanning the crowd with satisfaction. Although his eyes were not on her, however, she could tell that he was speaking directly to her. His deep voice was quiet, almost too quiet to hear over the din, yet she heard it as if he were screaming in a silent temple.

"I've seen you here before," he said when she did not reply. "You're always in this corner with your notebook. It seemed curious to me that, at a party, you always seem to be alone. And you never dance."

The man said all of this in his quiet, deep voice like he was listing off commonly known facts, yet, somehow that made it seem all the more personal. He had the kind of voice that sang to your soul, gracefully taking the center stage of your mind. Sylvia's hand itched to write down every detail of this man in her notebook, painting the most vivid picture out of words. He seemed like the kind of man who would know everything you wanted him to know about you simply by looking into your eyes, and yet, all of his emotions were closed behind doors. You didn't mind, though, because he was so focused on you that nothing else mattered. You were the most important person in the world.

"I don't dance," she replied after a long pause. "I write."

The man nodded slowly, bobbing his head up and down in time to the boisterous music.

"I understand," he said, for all the world like he did. "I don't dance either."

There was a silence for a moment. Not an awkward silence as Sylvia might have imagined, but a companionable, comfortable silence which seemed to spread out from their bodies, temporarily muting the world around them.

Finally, the man spoke, slowly and quietly.

"You look familiar. But I never asked your name," he said, making it sound like he was begging for forgiveness for his carelessness.

"Sylvia," she told him, not feeling the need to reveal her last name. He looked strangely familiar too, but until she knew more, she would not give away everything.

He paused for a moment, his eyes searching.

"You look beautiful tonight, Sylvia," the man replied finally.

Sylvia blushed. Up until this point, the conversation had been so easy. But it always got to this point. Always.

"I'm sorry," she said bluntly. "But I would rather not flirt."

It was the man's turn to blush now, his perfect tan turning a muted shade of scarlet around his cheekbones.

"I apologize for...coming across that way," he said, suddenly awkward. "I only meant it in the most sincere way. I don't flirt either. Not with my guests."

"Oh," she said, abashed. "I'm sorry."

The man didn't reply to her for a long time. When he finally spoke, what he said took her aback.

"Would you like to join me in the library?" He asked, his voice suddenly confident. "I have a wonderful library. You are a writer. You would like it."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned abruptly away and began walking along the edge of the crowd. Sylvia took a moment to admire his gait, confident, with long strides, shoulders held back to make his back look impossibly broad and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his impeccable suit jacket. It was nearly impossible to keep herself from opening her notebook right there and jotting down every small detail of him, however, she managed to shove her notebook into her little silver clutch and run after the man, afraid of losing him in the tumultuous crowd.

* * *

The library was vast, floor to ceiling bookshelves, filling the room in a snaking labyrinth of literature. Sylvia was in love with it at once. She tried to resist the urge to bounce from shelf to shelf, reading titles and running her hands along the dusty spines, but the urge was too great. She threw herself at one of the shelves, her wide eyes drinking in the words through the dusty light.

It took her a moment to remember who had brought her there. Slightly embarrassed, she stood up a little bit straighter and looked around for the man. She didn't see him at first, but finally her eyes landed on him, standing on a dais by a set of large windows, draped with crimson curtains. He reclined against the back of an armchair, looking both sophisticated and rugged at the same time. It took Sylvia's eyes a moment to adjust to the more brightly lit dais, but when she did, she realized something startling. The man reclining against the chair was beautiful. She had never seen anyone more beautiful in her life. Maybe it was the the light or the backdrop of the crimson curtains, but in that moment, the man looked like an angel, incapable of evil or wrong, a man who was only pure and good and beautiful. Sylvia felt something stir inside of her, a kind of longing that she had never felt before.

The man beckoned to her to join him on the dais. Sylvia walked up the carpeted steps, trying not to shake with an emotion slightly like excitement and slightly more like fear. She wished that she had another gin rickey, but she had finished her last one a while ago and had left the empty glass on some table on her way to the library.

As she came to stand next to him, the man straightened up and turned to face her. Sylvia had not meant to stand so close to the man, but when he turned, they were only inches apart. She was shorter than him by a few inches, but when he looked down on her, it was not condescending at all, only caring.

They stood in silence for a moment, simply looking at each other.

"I love the books," Sylvia whispered, not knowing what else to say. "They're so beautiful."

"They're all real," the man replied, as if he needed to clarify. "Every single one of them has real pages. I've even read some of them."

Sweet strains of music floated up the stairs, through the labyrinth, and onto the dais, wrapping around Sylvia and the man who stood before her. Almost timidly, he took her hand.

"Would you like to dance?" He asked her.

"I don't dance," she whispered, almost hoping that he wouldn't hear her.

"Neither do I," he said, even more quietly.

So they danced, spinning slowly around and around, being as silent as possible in order to still hear the soft music. They kept dancing, when the music faded away. And when it was gone, he kissed her, and she returned the favor until they found themselves on the couch, intertwined in one another until there was no end. They did not speak, but their hearts sang.

It all ended too soon. The man received an important phone call and had to rush off. He promised, swore he would be back, but the sun was already rising and Sylvia knew that she could not be there when he returned.

There was an empty room down the hall which had a phone in it. Sylvia twirled the dial, her hands shaking, praying that the man's call would take a long, long time. She did not understand how it had happened, and that was what scared her. She was afraid that it would happen again, and she wouldn't be able to stop it. The only thing more terrifying than a one night stand was a stand that lasted the rest of her life: falling too quickly in love with a man she barely knew. As she hurried through the last stragglers of the party, she realized with regret that she didn't even know his name. But she could not go back, even after she realized that she had left something in the library. By that time, she was already in the cab, making her way home and trying not to look out the window to watch the lights in the big house go out, one by one.

When the man returned to the library and found that she was gone, he sank down on the couch and put his head in his hands. He almost missed seeing the small, silver clutch which had been abandoned on the floor. He reached down and cradled it in his hands or a moment before he opened it. Inside, there was only a small notebook full of odd bits of dialogue in tight, neat cursive. Holding it carefully, as if it was ancient and invaluable, the man carried them to a shelf. He pulled a book off of the self and opened it, revealing a cavity into which he fit Sylvia's notebook. Then, he closed the book, put it back on the shelf with the others, and walked away from the wall of books.

* * *

Sylvia recognized his face when it appeared in the newspaper months later. The headline proclaimed that a man named Jay Gatsby, owner of a large house in West Egg and host of numerous fantastic parties, had been shot by another man, who then killed himself. Sylvia read the headline over and over again, horrified, shocked. She hugged herself, wrapping her arms around her large belly, and wondered what she was going to do now. She had always known that she couldn't raise the child on her own; there's no money in writing. Not enough to raise a child. Now she knew the father, the father who had the means to take care of her and her child. But Jay Gatsby was dead.

It was raining when she arrived at the mansion. She paid the driver without a tip and asked him to come back at midnight. He grumbled, but consented before he drove off, leaving her at the base of the marble steps.

Nobody answered the door for her when she knocked, so she let herself in. Maybe it was illegal, but she was desperate. Anyway, she had nothing to lose. She stepped inside and let the door close behind her. The entryway looked so strange and empty and dark, so different from the fated party of so many months ago.

Her wet shoes clicked and squeaked on the wet floor as she wandered through the halls. Nobody seemed to be home. She wondered why there were no police, no mourners in black, no sobbing family members. Maybe her newspaper had been old, and all the mourning was over.

At some point, Sylvia found herself in the library. All of the memories hit her at once, as if all of the bookshelves had fallen over on top of her, pummeling her and burying her in books. She walked slowly up onto the dais. The crimson curtains were gone, but the couch was still there, covered in a sheet of dust. She walked absentmindedly over to a shelf and took out a book, thinking to maybe take her mind off of everything for just a moment. But when she opened the book, she found that there were no pages. Inside the cavity in the book was another book, a notebook. With a shaking hand, Sylvia removed the book from the cavity and opened it to the first page.

Property of:_Sylvia Fay_

Without taking her eyes from the book, she sat down in an armchair and took a pen from a cobweb-covered cup on the dusty desk. She opened to the next empty page and began to write, pouring her mind into the journal that Gatsby had hidden in the fake book.

"All of the books are real," he told me. "They have real pages and everything." But that isn't true. Who knows how many of these books are full of lies.

That's where Nick found her, in the armchair, pouring her thoughts into the lost notebook.

"Sylvia?" He asked timidly, as if he was unsure of what he was really seeing. "Is that you?"

She looked up and nodded, confirming.

"My dear cousin!" He exclaimed, running up to meet her as she rose from the chair, depositing the notebook on the desk behind her. "How have you been? How did you get here? Oh my goodness, you're pregnant. So you finally settled down then?"

Sylvia tried keep her composure. So he didn't know about the rift in the family? He had always been clueless.

"Nick," she sighed, not even making an effort to sound cheerful. "Nice to see you."

"Well, sit down!" He instructed. "You should be at home and in bed, not out and about! What brings you here anyway? Where is your husband? I would like to meet him."

Sylvia sat down, trying to decide how to answer. If he realized that she was pregnant out of wedlock, well, he would only abandon her like the rest of her family did when she decided to give up rich girl life to be with a poor boy, a relationship which had only lasted a few months. But the damage had been done.

"Nick, you can't meet my husband," she said, realizing that nothing she could say could make things any worse. "I'm not married."

Nick looked shocked.

"Well, then," he said jerkily. "Who is...the father?"

"That's why I'm here," she replied solemnly. "Gatsby was the father. Jay Gatsby."

Nick looked even more shocked.

"No," he said. "It couldn't be. Gatsby was with..."

He paused, looking furtively at Sylvia.

"With whom?" She asked, not sure she wanted to know.

Nick took a deep breath before responding.

"With your sister. Daisy."

Sylvia couldn't breathe. It was too horrible to be true. Her sister, the rich girl who had married the rich man, the one whom everyone loved. Everyone, even Gatsby? Of course he would love Daisy, Sylvia told herself, hugging her belly and wondering how many fake books were full of trinkets which had once belonged to Daisy Fay.


End file.
